


yours is to love me from a block away

by what_on_io



Series: never give all the heart (for love) [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst, Don't worry, Explicit Sexual Content, Hate Sex, M/M, Unhealthy Relationships, like it's all consensual but not the happiest sex ever, pretty much pwp, they will eventually be happy!!!, very very mildly dubious consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-04 05:01:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10268837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_on_io/pseuds/what_on_io
Summary: "Waited up for me, huh?" Hancock asks, poised carefully in the doorway."I'm due on guard duty at 0600 hours. We have approximately thirty-eight minutes if you want to fuck."Hancock and Danse have a little casual thing going. He isn't sure if it's pity sex or hate sex; all Hancock knows is there's an ache left in the hollow of his chest when Danse slips back into his power armour and slams the door behind him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome to my first ever smut piece ever. I feel a bit queasy posting this, to be honest, BUT. There will be an overarching story! With a plot! 
> 
> Warnings for unhealthy relationships/coping mechanisms and some not very happy sex. Things will get better, don't worry! (Everyone's gonna be lovely and happy by the end of this series, I assure you)
> 
> Just in case it's not entirely clear, this fic diverges from canon in that Brotherhood patrols have been placed on the gates of Goodneighbor. Y'know, to keep all those pesky abominations inside.
> 
> (Golly they're assholes)
> 
> Title comes from _Yours and Mine_ by Alice Fulton.

These Brotherhood patrols are making Hancock antsy.

  
Assholes think they run the entire Commonwealth, tucked safe inside their stupid tin suits, with their stupid regulation haircuts and baby laser rifles. He’d like to see one of them handle a real shotgun.

  
Worst of it is, ever since their Elder decided Goodneighbor’s too much of a threat to public safety there’re two guards posted at his gates at all times, and while they’re a good distraction for any wayward super mutants, the derision they project is making his people twitchy. And twitchy ain’t good in these parts, not with so many chems and access to K-LE0’s arsenal.

  
When Hancock stumbles back through the streets from a midnight Jet-fuelled stroll, it’s Rhys on the gates, beefy arms folded across his chest and the usual stoic expression pinned to his face. It’s disappointing that Hancock knows the soldiers by name; more disappointing that he’s caught a select few of them sneaking a drink with Fahrenheit in the Third Rail.

  
“Cheer up, brother, it might never happen,” he grins, giving the Knight a friendly slap on the arm as he brushes past. The soldier’s face twists in revulsion and fuck if it doesn’t fill Hancock with a sick sort of pride, the way he arches out of his defensive stance to scrub at the spot he touched.

  
Hancock heads straight for the State House, greeting the couple of ghouls who offer a mock salute when he wades through them. The walk’s cleared his brain a bit and everything’s mostly back to normal speed, but there’s a slight ache beginning in his heels and burning up his calves, and all he wants is to crawl into bed and maybe have Fahr bring up some snack-cakes when he wakes up. As it is, he has to stop to reassure a small group of drifters that the Brotherhood aren’t allowed inside the gates, and if they try anything he’ll have the Watch turn on them quick as you can say _don’t shoot_. Until then, though, he’s painfully aware that even as Mayor, he can’t do a damn thing to protect his town. Brotherhood have to make the first move, else the soldiers have every right to gun everyone down.

  
“S’long as you say everythin’s okay, Mayor Hancock. Y’know we trust you,” the self-proclaimed leader of the group mumbles in response to his hushed aside. He can only offer a hasty nod before heading off for the Old State House, needing to get away. Ain’t exactly lyin’, he tells himself. Just… selective truths.

  
Hancock ascends the stairs with exhaustion making his eyelids droopy. His feet are throbbing with the kind of ache he hasn’t had in a while, not since he got all cushy in his mayoral office, and hell if it don’t feel good. The sun’s just about ready to crest the horizon, a pale green mass of clouds gathered above the city in a sleepy sort of way, and Hancock stifles a yawn as he climbs, stretching his arms above his head.

  
“Hey hon,” he announces to Fahr when he reaches the top-floor landing, sweeping his tricorn off his head and poising to fling it onto the armchair. He trips into the living quarters expecting to find Fahrenheit reclining on the couch with a cigarette dangling from her lips, freezing in the doorway when he realises it’s not a woman sitting there at all.

  
“Well, ain’t this a turn up?” Hancock asks, forcing an edge of bravado into his voice, relieved when it doesn’t tremble. Still, he doesn’t feel very brave standing there, hat still dangling uselessly from one hand while he tries to muster the courage to properly enter the room.

  
“Never,” Danse says, moving to stand. Fuck. He’s abandoned his power armour somewhere across the room and looks rather small in just the Brotherhood fatigues, the orange jumpsuit too bright against the beige backdrop of the sitting room, courtesy of two-hundred plus years and Fahrenheit’s laughable notions of interior decorating. Those muscles strain tight against the fabric, broad shoulders and bulging biceps and sweet Atom above, Hancock could _devour_ him.

  
“Waited up for me, huh?” he asks instead, carefully depositing the hat on the back of a chair. He kicks the door shut with the heel of his boot, slides the bolt into place.

  
“I’m due on guard at 0600 hours. We have approximately thirty-eight minutes if you want to fuck.”

  
“Don’t waste any time, do you?”

  
In three strides Hancock’s crossed the room, shucking his coat off along the way and letting it drift to the floor in a flurry of fabric. Danse growls low in his throat and starts fumbling with the buckles on the jumpsuit, stripping it down from the arms when it’s loose enough, revealing the dirty white tank top underneath.

  
Danse’s physique is impressive at the best of times, but here with the grey-green morning light falling over his shoulders, highlighting the dusting of freckles at his upper arms, he’s beautiful. Hancock can’t say so, of course, can’t even pause to run reverent fingers down the flesh there, so he keeps quiet. Like always. Waits for Danse to strip the rest of the suit off so he’s standing there in boxers and a vest, and only then does he grab Hancock’s arm to tow him closer to the bed.

  
They fall in a graceless heap somewhere at the end of the mattress, so the backs of Hancock’s knees are pressed hard into the edge. Someone lets out an _oomph_ , but Hancock can’t say whether it’s him or Danse, and then the other man’s teeth are at his collarbone and Danse is questing towards the belt at his waist.

  
Deft fingers make quick work of the knot and tug the flag belt away. Hancock feels the chill of morning air hit his bare thighs before he’s fully aware of Danse having pulled his trousers all the way down, taking Hancock’s pants with them. Goosebumps prickle on the patches of skin they still manage to do that in, and if Hancock still had any hair it’d be standing on end as the other man reaches a rough hand around the front of the ghoul’s body to work his cock.

  
He’s never gentle, never pauses long enough to slick his hand with the oil Hancock keeps in the nightstand. Danse jerks Hancock off roughly, like he does everything else, but it ain’t as if the friction isn’t welcome. The sensation of the slight callouses of Danse’s hand against his prick sends heat to pool in the pit of Hancock’s stomach, sweat already starting to glisten between them. He’s barely aware of Danse still fumbling behind him, shucking his boxers to the floor so he’s deliciously naked except for that damned vest.

  
Hancock turns only slightly, enough to pluck at the ratty fabric with the very tips of his fingers. Usually Danse goes out of his way to avoid the other man’s touch, and by now Hancock knows the rules of their little game well enough not to try anything. Since he isn’t going for any bare skin he reckons they can make an exception just this once.

  
He’s right, to an extent: Danse growls a bit but hardly bats him away, allowing Hancock to drag the vest up past his broad shoulders.

  
“Get your hands off me, ghoul,” he says once it’s off and Hancock’s hands have already retreated. He grins a bit to himself, knowing that he’s succeeded in rattling Danse. Another time, if he wasn’t already tired from his night-long walk, he might see how far he could push. Squirm around so his front’s facing Danse, so he’s forced to look while he works his cock. Trail mottled fingers down the planes of the other man’s sculpted chest, strip his own shirt off to reveal the ruined flesh beneath.

  
As it is, the shirt stays on. Like always. The one time he tried to strip Danse halted him with firm hands clamped around his wrists, shoved him back down on the bed and made quick work of fucking him raw until they both came, weary and panting, and Hancock’s never tried again.

  
Now Hancock feels two fingers pushing at his entrance, slumping down further on the bed so his head’s at the other end and his legs hang lazily off the mattress, trousers still tangled round his ankles. It's always this way - always Danse doing the fucking. If Hancock were a man to analyse things in the heat of the moment he'd have a lot to say about repressed emotions, but since he's not, he's free to enjoy the feeling of Danse's body’s pressed hard against his own, so close he can smell the musky scent of the other man - still a bit groggy from sleep, maybe, if he’s on duty so early. He smells like all the Brotherhood smell - of motor oil and leather and testosterone, and Hancock’s heady with it like he always is.

  
“Fuck,” he grunts as the fingers slide inside him. It’d be easier with lube, of course, but he’s used to this by now, and the hand pumping his cock doesn’t slow until it’s slick with pre-cum. That eases the burn a bit, when Danse deigns to switch hands, and eventually Hancock's open enough for Danse to manhandle him more securely onto the bed and line himself up.

  
"Ungh." It's all Hancock can muster. The other man's cock is so much wider than those fingers were, and Danse isn't one for going slow. He shudders once against Hancock's back, the hand still loose around his cock jerking a bit, and the pressure is nearly too much. Hancock breathes best he can - he sometimes forgets just how _big_ Danse is, but now he can feel it filling him up from the inside and the stretch is just this side of painful and _fuck_ -

  
Then he's all the way in and Hancock turns to fucking goo as soon as he hits his prostate. It's this bit he loves the most - when Danse is wound up enough to forget to hurry, just for a few seconds, when the glide of their bodies against one another isn't all harsh lines and jagged edges. Danse lets out a grunt, sounding almost animal, and Hancock can feel him holding himself back from thrusting, just for a moment. Sometimes he likes to pretend it's to make sure Hancock's adjusted enough to his girth before he fucks him properly, to make sure he's _okay_. Hilarious as that fantasy is, the frequency of it's almost frightening.

  
"Fuck," Danse mutters, and the moment's gone. He pulls back so only the very tip of him is sheathed inside Hancock before slamming back inside, hitting that magic spot on each upward thrust, until Hancock's keening. Danse is far enough gone that he doesn't even shush him, eyes rolled so far back that when Hancock looks back he can only see the whites.

  
Hancock knows when the other man is close - his hips shudder erratically, bucking up into Hancock's ass, mouth hanging open like someone's unhinged his jaw. Danse's fist pumps Hancock once, twice, and then Hancock's falling over the fucking edge and Danse follows him right off with a final thrust, letting out a stream of hissed curse words. Sex is the only time Hancock gets to hear the Paladin swear, and if he wasn't seeing stars he might find it in him to chuckle at the prospect.

  
When their orgasms have been wrung out of them both, Danse slides out quickly, leaving Hancock splayed out on the mattress, breathing loud through the cavity where his nose used to be. He can hear the other man cleaning himself up, stooping to pick up fallen clothes and shrugging them back on, but can't find the energy to turn around and watch.

  
"I've been re-assigned," Danse says conversationally when he's done, striding over to the power armour he's left across the room. The ghost of something flutters low in Hancock's abdomen, clenches tight, and then he does find it in him to flip over to prop himself up on his elbows.

  
"Huh?" he asks stupidly. Danse barely glances up.

  
"After today I'll no longer be on guard detail in Goodneighbor. Elder Maxson's ordered me to be stationed on the Prydwen."

  
Hancock only vaguely recognises the title as belonging to the huge metal airship dangling like an oversized balloon above the city. Pulled in a few days back, got everyone on his streets talking. Somehow he hadn't connected the thing with Danse, hadn't expected... well.

  
"Oh."

  
"You'll probably be glad to know your cesspool of a town will no longer have members of the Brotherhood to keep it in check, I suppose. Nothing to stop you descending into a mass of seething ferals now that our moral influence has been removed."

  
"You're all goin'?" Hancock asks blithely. Can't say he ain't happy about that part, but...

  
"Our assistance is required aboard the Prydwen more than it is here. Although I have advised this settlement be commandeered eventually by one of our squadrons - best to eliminate further threats to the Commonwealth before they get too far out of hand."

  
Hancock's barely listening, knows it's all bluster anyway. No way in hell anyone's taking his town, especially not these Brotherhood jerks with their steel rods tucked firmly up their asses.

  
"Looks like we won't be seeing any more of each other, then," he offers. Feeling suddenly vulnerable, he reaches down to yank his trousers back up to cover himself, ignoring the sticky feeling on his stomach and between his thighs. He'll clean himself up later. For now, though...

  
"I doubt it," Danse says. Fuck, can't he muster the slightest twinge of remorse? If there was even the barest tone of longing hidden in his voice Hancock might feel a tad better, but he's as uncaring as he always is.

  
"Right, then. I guess this is... it," Hancock mumbles. The power amour opens with a hiss and he watches the Paladin grip the sides to ease himself inside, a lot more carefully than he ever handles Hancock. And fuck if he's jealous of a giant metal suit...

  
"If you could restrain yourself from lamenting my loss publicly, ghoul, I'd appreciate it," Danse says coldly, "I'd rather keep my position as Paladin, if it's all the same to you."

  
And then the bastard walks right out the door, leaving Hancock to curl in on himself on the King-sized mattress, feeling for all the world like someone's yanked his heart out through his ribs and handed it to him, pulsating, on a plate.


End file.
